


go against my sorrows softly, softly

by TheonlyDan



Category: Nightwish, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst with a happy-ish ending, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, My first Tuorja, mild depiction of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheonlyDan/pseuds/TheonlyDan
Summary: Basically just a series of angsty drabbles.
Relationships: Marcelo Cabuli/Tarja Turunen, Tarja Turunen/Tuomas Holopainen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	go against my sorrows softly, softly

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of the characters. This is just a work of fiction. All faults were mine and mine alone.

Everything pales in comparison with Tarja. Unfortunately, Tuomas is a man who lives for contrasts.

He had shoved her away to prove that wrong.

***

He loved the contrast between Tarja’s raven hair and the pillow. The silky strands of the disheveled hair had spilled onto the milk-white textile, then cascaded smoothly into the sheets. Tarja was not a peaceful sleeper. Every time he spent the night, Tarja roused him in the middle of the night by a careless kick on the knee, an unconscious yank at the sheets, a heavy arm draped across his air-pipe, or occasionally, rubbing hotly on him for sex.

Tuomas remembered staring at her hair for twenty minutes, awed by the beauty of it instead of waking her up. Tarja was not a light-sleeper, but Tuomas didn’t want to risk that. He promised himself to be good to her.

When Tarja finally woke up, she seemed displeased at the expectance and adoration in his eyes. Or maybe she was just having a tantrum. Tarja wasn’t a morning person.

Afraid to touch her, Tuomas left her be. He disappeared quietly into the bathroom.

When he came back, she was gone. The cold dent on the bed contrasted with the warmth still on Tuomas skin—branded into his memory—that when he wrote the letter, he was quick to fill in that hollowness with anger.  
  


***

Tuomas hated the contrast between himself and Marcelo. That Argentinean merchant knew how to create needs, thus, he could sell. Tuomas only knew how to appreciate defects, thus, loving Tarja for who she was and told her more than once that _please don’t change for me_. She got tired of it because she was tired of being an image instead of a woman.

Marcelo _made_ Tarja into a woman. He reminded her of her innocence, robbed it, then replaced it with that confidence to make her eyes shine brighter, in shades of green brilliance that Tuomas had never seen, let alone create.

When Marcelo appeared alongside Tarja, Tuomas instantly knew he was going to whisk Tarja away from—

From what? Whom? Tarja was never his. She was her own muse and a lot of times, a muse to Tuomas on writing music. In fact, he didn’t know how many songs were inspired by her. It’d be easier to count how many pieces of music were _not_ about Tarja.

Her plush lips, her green eyes, her delicate nose, her high cheekbones. Her feline form, her velvety skin that always looked alabaster and was close to translucent, her warm mouth that tasted like the softest snowflake that’d melt against your tongue.

Tuomas tucked bits and pieces of Tarja all over his music: _his_ music, _his_ band, _his_ own interpretation of the right set of value systems.

Alas, Tarja never shared his values. Not authentically. She viewed life as one great firework with iridescent colors igniting the dark. Tuomas viewed life as the night sky waiting to be contrasted with the shy blinks of the stars, ready to be split open by the rising, sleepy sun.

Tarja had the same beliefs with Cabuli—or, that was what the business guy had been telling her.

So Tuomas shoved Tarja into Marcelo’s fucking arms first with the open letter. Might as well did it before Marcelo could take apart _his_ band, the only thing that meant something to Tuomas.

***

He loved the sense of winning when in fact, it was just the contrast of reality and lies.

Yes, he had promised to be good to Tarja. Smoking was the opposite of that.

Reveling with the rest of the bandmates was the opposite. Ignoring her was the opposite. Writing a song for some girl in a bar was the opposite.

Nobody wins in a negative circle, especially if both parties were in a volatile relationship.

Tuomas was good with self-harm; self-depreciation could take a while to heal, but Tarja had lost her patience to cater to Tuomas’ mood-swings. Tuomas decided to not care about Tarja, too.

Or so he told himself. The line between the feeling of winning and self-deception was very thin, thinner than the line of cocaine Tuomas tried in his first party without Tarja.

He couldn’t remember what he said to Tarja afterward. On his drugged-high, he only remembered those green eyes, sparkly like gemstones frozen in sadness, like Tarja was disappointed with him letting her down.

It was hardly the first time, though. When he wrote the letter, he recounted all the times he’d let her down. Poignancy didn’t stop him from planning to get rid of her. Maybe if he got rid of Tarja he would be clean again—clean from shame, false-hopes and poisonous love.

***

Tuomas hated how soft he was, so eager to please. Yes, he knew she was dating Marcelo, and was painfully aware that she and himself weren’t talking anymore. But when Tarja came back with an outstretched hand he gladly took it, only to feel the coldness of the engagement ring on her skin.

 _Will you come to our wedding?_ Tarja asked him, her dew-pink lips curling into an angle of happiness—the joy of an about-to-be wife. The excitement went lost to Tuomas. He only felt the cruelness behind her smile. It cut into his bones, hard, shocking and painful enough to feel like someone taking a bat to knock him in the head, the blow leaving him dizzy and disoriented.

 _Of course._ He heard himself said, smiling back a beat too late. He knew Tarja saw how stiff he was with that gesture.

Oh, he was never afraid to let Tarja know about his sufferings. She looked straight through him anyway, where once she regarded him as the finest piece of music she had ever sung: mystic, romantic, luring, precious.

Tuomas didn’t curb his bitterness with the public letter. He was eager for the world to know his sufferings as well. He gave it all in the letter: black contrasting against the white, signs of innuendos lurking between the lines, red-hot rage coiling as accusing undertones, businesslike words contrasting with the unrelenting emotions hidden beneath as if Tuomas was trying to tell Tarja—it was an end of era only when he said so. _Things were never over between us until I said so._

***

Tuomas loves music. He loves Nightwish. He loved punishing himself of how wrong the band felt in Tarja’s absence, contrasting with the good old days where they still shared the same prospect, a blurry, wonderful, golden future of what Nightwish would be.

Some things faded with Tarja and some got restored. Fortunately, Tuomas lives for contrasts. He thrives in his decision of forgoing the best segment of his years. _Tarja_. The woman he loved. The one he never deserved, and never would be.

At least he is on the winning side this time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm slowly wrapping up my mind about the Tarja-being-kicked-outta-NW-drama. Although people say we should all just let that go already, I think there are still some beautiful, exotic things left in the tragedy.  
> Sadly we can never learn the exact truth, so I want to understand the closest version of it. After taking words from both sides, this thingy is my take on the whole event.  
> Thx for reading:)


End file.
